Tender Mercy
by v2point0
Summary: Life was a steady, fluid stream, changing and shifting. Some things remained constant, and some changes were never quite welcomed. But so far, Kaon had no regrets or losses to mourn. Not really.


Wanted to do something with Tarn/Kaon and playing with my Kaon headcanon. Please pardon any grammatical errors, tyvm.

* * *

Usually it was Vos who tended to everyone's wounds, seeing as he had the most medical experience and expertise of the entire group. However, given he was currently occupied, it was Kaon who was left to perform Tarn's surgery.

Tarn was usually comfortable waiting for Vos to finish patching up his comrades before him. He'd never sustained any serious or possibly fatal injuries in the duration of his work in the group so far, so there was never any reason for him to shove himself to the front of the line. However, when it came to more personal health problems, Tarn wasn't very fond of being pushed down to second place on the list of priorities. He'd made it very clear on only one occasion - because only one time to learn a lesson from Tarn is more than enough to last two lifetimes - that when it came to his "special needs", he wouldn't wait.

However, when Vos was busy with work, Tarn could understand the conflict. The job came first, for the most part, he knew. So he accepted waiting. Though his patience was very thin when it came to his... Kaon wasn't sure what to call it. Nor was Vos or Tesarus or Helex. For the most part, they never discussed it. Never brought it up. It wasn't their place, for one, and it probably wasn't a very good idea. Tarn thought gossip was so _very_ unbecoming and crass, and he expected much more from his team.

Addiction was the correct term. That is what they all thought. An unsaid word on the tips of their tongues. But they never called it an addiction; Tarn wasn't exactly sensitive about the topic, nor insistent about keeping it secret. The DJD knew of his addiction to transformation, to t-cogs, and he never shied away from the topic when it was broached, rare as it was. Perhaps he was fine with it being called what it was. Perhaps he didn't care if his teammates thought he was an addict. Perhaps he did.

Perhaps it was best to never ask.

Either way, as such, Kaon had watched Vos preform the specific surgery on numerous occasions. At first, just out of curiosity's sake. Tarn didn't seem bothered by the extra presence, which was probably a clear indication he didn't care what anyone thought of his "problem". However, the last few visits were to be a learning experience - Vos knew he couldn't be around to preform these surgeries at every beck and call. He needed back-up.

The surgery wasn't very complicated, but it required delicacy and a smaller set of hands. Kaon's weren't much bigger than Vos's, so he had that much down. Vos explained things carefully but firm; Kaon needed to both listen and understand. Whatever his understudy did not catch in that intricate Primal Vernacular, Tarn was helpful to supply the Neocybex equivalent. Though he usually stayed quiet, save the low hum of his systems, chest healthily rising and falling.

With Vos busy hard at work, Kaon was left with the task of scooping out the remains of Tarn's old, abused t-cog and replacing it with another for the very first time.

Kaon figured it would be easy. Simply detach, dispose, replace. But Tarn was... He was not an impatient Decepticon, not entirely. But when in the throes of his transforming spell, his body more often than not had a hard time catching up. Sometimes the broken t-cog was in stable enough condition to easily be plucked and removed. Sometimes - like now, and usually when Tarn was in a particularly desperate or bored mood - it was an utter mess.

The t-cog itself had melted somewhat around the heated plating and overworked system. Kaon was sure Tarn's body would have shut down and fallen apart by now had it not been made of such sturdy material. Edges of the t-cog had liquefied and began drying, crusting at the edges, into the jacks and sockets connecting the organ to the rest of the body. Dried, thick globs of fuel and coolant dripped from minute tears in small fuel pumps. The damage was more aesthetic than harmful, but it would still be a tricky little operation. Mostly to make sure everything had been removed and cleaned out.

Kaon wasn't sure if he was annoyed or elated that his first time preforming the surgery would be a rather tedious one.

"There's no need to be nervous. It's nothing you haven't seen before."

Kaon raised his head from the deformed t-cog to Tarn. The DJD leader was lying stretched out on his back, optics dim and staring at the ceiling. Quite content despite the mess he had made. His words were humorous as they were deep, but Kaon could sense the slight urging push in his tone. Fix him, put in a new t-cog, and let him get back to his fun.

"My apologies," Kaon said, simply. He drew over the tray of medical instruments, recalling Vos's lecture. A laser scalpel flicked online with a small buzz. First cut out the majority of the t-cog, then work on the details. Nothing too hard. Except the damn thing was still hot, and the smaller Decepticon frowned as one cut loosened a few droplets of the melting organ. Tarn couldn't feel it, however, his pain receptors happily offline.

Kaon managed to remove most of the t-cog. Heat stretched through his fingers, but nothing burning; he held out the organ, getting a good look at it. His sensory field picked up heat waves, the busted t-cog a bright red-orange orb in his curious fingers. Judging by the shapes of the colors, it was bent inward, as if collapsing in on itself. Probably would have if Tarn hadn't gotten "help" sooner.

The useless t-cog bounced once with a clak-click as Kaon dropped it on the table. Simple enough so far, but now... The smaller Decepticon slid his fingers along the row of cool steel and metal before picking out the proper tools. He bent forward, hands buried inside Tarn, working at chipping and draining choked sockets and pumps. Most of it came out rather easily; the tool in his right hand buzzed as it sucked up most of the gunk. A quick system flush would take out any remnants of fallen debris.

Kaon had no complaints so far. Nor did his patient. However, as he slid the razor edge of the scalpel into one port, his hands quickly withdrew. Dam broken, unhealthy, ugly, steaming black and coolant streaked liquid coughed and sputtered from the port and its connected pump. Kaon's olfactories burned with a distinct burning, bitter smell.

"It brings back memories, doesn't it?"

The smaller Decepticon turned from his work, gazed at Tarn's masked face.

"That smell," Tarn said, his optics still dark, "you know it well. Rather intimately, I'd say."

Kaon remained frozen, not a single nerve-circuit in his face twitching. He knew exactly what Tarn meant. He wasn't surprised his leader knew of the incident, either. They all went through extensive background checks before joining the DJD. Of course Tarn would know - but still, Kaon was... mildly surprised.

He'd heard something once before - smell is the strongest sense connected to memory . It was more a combination of scent and taste. But Kaon remembered things very clearly, right down to the prison number of the unfortunate bastard he was frying.

It wasn't unusual, however. Most of those the senate sentenced to death behind the blind eye of the society they so expertly manipulated were innocent. Or at least their punishments did not fit their crimes. Kaon was sure most of his victims hadn't been guilty, but as powerful as the senate was, it was also afraid. Especially when the Decepticon movement started to grow in numbers. Now paranoia was at an all new high, and even the slightest of crimes could wind you up in his clutches, secured down tight and pumped full of fatal, excruciating volts of electricity.

Kaon, however, honestly did not care. He never felt sympathy for his victims. He never complained or spoke out of turn. He did his job, and he did it well. And even as life slipped so very horribly away beneath his ministrations, there wasn't a single shred of empathy to be found in his system.

"It's a cruel fate for those born in an alt mode such as yours. What else are you good for, besides killing?" That's what they had told him. It was as if they were trying to hurt or demean Kaon. He knew they were asserting dominance. He knew they meant to make him feel weak and alone and therefore dependent on them. They didn't count on the fact he was apathetic, and was rather comfortable with taking lives.

One might say he rather _enjoyed_ it.

However, after going through dozens of criminals, innocent or otherwise, terrorists or even politicians the senate could no longer trust or control, it was... this prisoner that stirred the waters. Kaon wasn't quite sure what was so outstanding about this particular mech bound in his chair, waiting for death with a brave face. (Those were few and far in between - most cried and pleaded and begged. Most made a mess.) But something about him piqued enough of Kaon's curiosity to refrain him from killing the criminal.

So he hadn't.

Sure, his superiors thought he had. He fooled them rather easily. Pumped just the right amount of electricity into the mech to knock him offline for a day or two, but not kill him. Would slow his vitals and even halt them long enough for the coroner to confirm death and then have the senate dispose of the corpse. Likely pin it on someone else, or make it look like an accident or act of terrorism. They were getting less creative these days, Kaon noticed - their cover-ups were becoming more and more routine. They made their executions appear as Decepticon in origin. Scare the populace, make them think the rising rebels were the true enemy.

It was an interesting experiment, and Kaon was half-desperate to see how it would turn out once his superiors caught on.

It was inevitable. As Kaon suspected, this curious little mech had turned out to be more than he had originally imagined. Something that put him in the news as a freedom fighter a week after his "death". Something that rocked the senate and upset them to the core.

_How wonderful_, Kaon thought. _What happens next?_

Kaon was rare in that Cybertronians with his alt mode were hard to come by. But he was not irreplaceable. The senate was always quick to remind him of this, in fact. So when they forced Kaon to take his own medicine, as it were, he was none too surprised. He'd resisted at first (just to see what would happen, and it was laughable at how angry they'd gotten), but it was only a matter of time before they had him under control (willingly, but let them take the credit). He'd never turned his own power on himself - he had never hurt himself with the same power he used on others.

It was... quite a learning experience. Difficult, but accomplished. It lasted only two minutes. Forced to his limits, something Kaon had never went beyond before. He was surprised he could contain that much power, that much juice, but at the time, couldn't really admire it. He'd blown a dozen circuits, fried and burned through a handful of fuel pumps, nearly shut down his entire system, melted various plates on his chassis, but none of that really compared to the sharp pain and that very distinct, very bitter smell of his optics popping like water balloons in his skull.

Shards of glass cut his face, but he couldn't feel it. The smell was too distracting - the taste of his optic fluids mixed with energon and coolant was enough to choke him. And with liquid in his throat, electricity quickly demolished his vocalizer. It bubbled magma-hot in his mouth and turned his tongue into a thin sheet of holes, his dental plating into curling flecks of metal. And just before the electricity could melt his CPU and the rest of his processors into a fine bloody slush, the command came, the pain died, and the world turned blacker.

How _wonderful_.

Kaon's hollowed-out sockets dropped back to his work. The pungent liquid had stopped flowing from the pump, small droplets dripping from its dirtied edge. "... I'd almost forgotten, to be honest," he said after a minute's stretch of silence, switching the tools back on.

Tarn chortled.

Kaon finished cleaning up, fetching a fresh t-cog. Easy to put in; Tarn had installed enough mods and adapters to take in most t-cogs of any size. This one was relatively small compared to one suited for his frame, but it would work just the same and just as efficiently. Though Kaon knew it'd burn out faster than the others like the one he extracted. Ah, well - Vos would take care of it.

Plating closed, locked back into place. Tarn's optics flickered online, bright at first before settling to their usual scarlet. He pushed sat up quickly; telling him not to over-exert himself was useless. Tarn lived to push limits and boundaries. He turned his gaze to the rotten t-cog on the table, then to Kaon cleaning the tools.

One large hand, big enough to eclipse Kaon's entire face, reached out. Kaon stirred then went still as the edge of a finger traced the ridge of his right optic socket. He kept his hands on the berth, allowed those inquisitive digits to trace and slightly, every so slightly, probe the hollow pits. Those fingers were so very bright, outlined perfectly in their heat signatures, obscuring his sensory field.

Fingers dropped down his cheek, feathered against throat tubing. A hand wrapped easily around the smaller neck, and Kaon fleetingly wondered if he'd be snapped in half like a twig. But the grip released as soon as it came, and took the edge of his chin; pumps strained as his head was half-forced up, tilted to the side just slightly. Thumb pushed against the edge of his chin, one curled finger working curious little rubs to the underside. He felt as if he were being dissected; Tarn's EM field and the heat he released were quite breathtaking.

Kaon was still and patient and obedient. He did not move. He did not complain about the tension starting to knot in his actuators. He stared, unblinking, frown settled and unmoving. Then, the sound of a unique click - opening - and Kaon felt warm, familiar lips caressing the corners of his right optic socket, cycling warm air into the emptied pits, tracing down to the ridge. His EM field released a pulse, something of gratitude, mostly by instinct. His field fluttered with the rest of his sensors.

The grip on his chin turned his head again, and the strain relaxed. Kaon visibly relaxed as well. He returned the kiss with the same vigor, as quiet and humble as it was.

Life was a steady, fluid stream, changing and shifting. Some things remained constant, and some changes were never quite welcomed. But so far, Kaon had no regrets or losses to mourn. Not really.

* * *

Title comes from the song of the same name by Au Palais.


End file.
